


Protect Me

by purplelly



Category: Red vs Blue, rvb - Fandom
Genre: modern day AU, non consent touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-21
Updated: 2014-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-18 07:33:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2340260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplelly/pseuds/purplelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doc and Donut drag Simmons out to the bar, but end up leaving him behind. Then a creep starts hitting on Simmons, and he panics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protect Me

Simmons didn’t come to bars often. He despised them, actually. Too many people, too many creeps. Simmons preferred to stay at home, with his computer, alone. It was Doc and Donut who had dragged him out in the first place, and the minute they got to the club, both had immediately ditched him to go dancing somewhere else(Simmons was also pretty sure that they weren’t exactly ‘dancing’, as much as sucking each other’s faces). So he was left alone at the bar, sipping at a shot with a name he wasn’t even sure existed until now.

Someone sat down beside him on a stool, but Simmons didn’t look to see who it was. His attention was brought to the stranger, however, when he felt a hand on his knee.

“Hey there,” The stranger next to him said. “You’re lookin’ a little lonely.”

“I-I’m fine,” Simmons replied, trying to shift away from him.

“I think you could use a bit of company,” The stranger insisted, his hand slowly sliding up Simmons’ leg.

“No-No thank you,” Simmons said, feeling panic rise up in him. His hand shook as he gripped the shot glass. Why did this guy have to pick on him? He was a just a nerdy guy; pale skin, too many freckles, short ginger hair, glasses. Who could possibly find him attractive?

“C’mon, cutie,” The stranger got closer. “We’ll have some fun tonight.”

“Get your hand off of my boyfriend!”

The hand was removed from Simmons’ leg, but Simmons was too confused. That voice was unfamiliar, but definitely pointed in their direction. Both him and the stranger looked back to where the voice was.

Another man stood behind Simmons. He was shorter than Simmons, a bit chubby, had dark skin and dark longish hair with stubble on his chin. He was holding a drink and glaring daggers at the stranger.

“No need for trouble, man,” The stranger said. “Just a misunderstanding.”

“Uh-huh, total misunderstanding. Stay away from me and my boyfriend,” The man argued. He grabbed Simmons by the arm and led him through the crowd to a table in the back of the club.

Simmons was too stunned to argue. His hand was still gripping the shot glass, the knuckles turned white. The man let Simmons sit down in a chair at the table then sat across from him.

“Sorry about that,” The man apologized. “It’s just that you looked really uncomfortable with that guy hitting on you.”

Simmons let himself calm down, that this man wasn’t about to do the same as the other man. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” The man replied. “Anyway, I’m Dexter Grif. Call me Grif.”

“Richard Simmons,” Simmons replied. “I go by Simmons.”

“Good to meet you, Simmons,” Grif said. He looked around. “Did you come here by yourself?”

“No,” Simmons replied, a bit fast. “I came with two people. But they kinda ditched me earlier.”

“Wow,” Grif commented. “This doesn’t seem like your night, is it?”

“I guess not,” Simmons shook his head. “If Doc and Donut hadn’t dragged me out here, I’d probably be at home, not getting groped by a complete stranger.”

“I can take you home if you want,” Grif said, then after realizing how creepy he sounded, added, “If you want, anyway. You don’t have to. I just want to help.” He scratched back of his head awkwardly.

Simmons stared at Grif for a minute, deciding if he was being serious of wanting to help or if he just wanted to get with him(after that last incident, he was cautious). He decided that Grif was being legit.

“Alright,” Simmons shrugged. “But only after we stop somewhere. I hate bar food and I’m starving.”

Grif smiled and nodded. Simmons followed Grif out of the bar, texting Donut to tell him that he left. He didn’t get a responding text, and he didn’t want to think about why.

Grif drove a motorcycle. It didn’t actually surprise Simmons, Grif seemed like the type of guy to drive one. Simmons just never actually rode on one before. Grif must’ve sensed his nervousness.

“It’s alright,” Grif reassured. “I’m a good driver.”

Simmons didn’t argue, and got behind Grif on the motorcycle. Grif handed him a helmet, which Simmons put on gratefully. Then, a bit awkwardly at first, Simmons wrapped his arms around Grif’s waist tightly. Then they were off.

Grif ended up parking the motorcycle at a little café. He helped Simmons off the bike and they both walked inside.

The two got a little booth in the corner of the café. They ordered their food(Simmons looking incredulously at the amount of food Grif ordered) and started to chat. An hour later, their food was finished, and they were still talking in the booth. The incident of the stranger had faded completely from Simmons’ mind.

“…And Tucker ended up with a black eye for a month,” Grif finished. “I don’t think he’s ever hit on Carolina again.”

“You sure have interesting friends,” Simmons said, chuckling.

“What are your friends like?” Grif asked. “Doc and Donut?”

“I’m pretty sure they’re together, though haven’t come out and said it,” Simmons said. “They spend all their time together. Yet, Donut insists never to leave me out.” Then, grumbling, “I sometimes wish he did.”

Grif looks at his watch. “I should probably take you home. It’s getting late.”

“Yeah,” Simmons agreed, looking at a clock on the wall of the café.

“Where do you live?” Grif asked. “So I can take you home.”

Simmons told him his apartment address, and Grif drove him there on his bike. Grif parked it on the curb and helped Simmons off.

“Thanks, again,” Simmons said.

“For what?” Grif asked.

“For that incident back at the bar,” Simmons replied.

Grif chuckled. “I said it was no problem, Simmons.” He paused, studying Simmons’ face for a minute. “Let me see your hand.”

“Why?” Simmons asked.

“Just let me see it,” Grif insisted. Simmons hesitantly gave him his hand, and Grif brought out a pen from his pocket. He scribbled numbers across Simmon’s palm, and Simmons blushed when he realized that Grif was giving him his number.

“Call me sometime,” Grif said, stuffing the pen back in his pocket. “I liked hanging out with you.”

“Me, too,” Simmons said. “I’ll call you.”

Grif nodded, and turned to get back on the bike. “See ya, Simmons.”

“Bye, Grif.”

Maybe going out wasn’t as bad as Simmons thought.


End file.
